“I have to get out of here!”

“Focus. One thing. My voice. All that you hear. All that matters. One thing, Nicky. Focus on my voice. The rest will go away.”

I don’t want to focus. I’m upright, swaying on my feet, and my ribs are too tight and I can’t catch my breath and there’s a skeleton in my head and maggots on my arms and doesn’t he know the rosebush is still bleeding and I failed her. So many times, so many ways. Over and over I go back to her. And over and over again, I fail.

I’m tired. Suddenly. Absolutely. I don’t think I can stand anymore.

“Everything is all right,” Thomas murmurs. “Come on, honey. You must be cold. Let’s tuck you back in bed.”

He takes a step closer.

“Why me?” Vero whispers in my head. But she is not whining anymore, just making conversation.

“Is your head all right?” Thomas continues. “Do you have a headache?”

On cue, my head explodes. I grab my temples, squeeze my eyes shut. In that moment, Thomas closes the gap between us. His arms snap like a steel trap around my shoulders. The hospital personnel fall back. Why not? The husband has arrived. Clearly, he’s got this.

“The sound of my voice,” he commands.

So I do. I listen to the sound of his voice. And with the weight of his hands upon my shoulders, I turn and fall in step meekly beside him.

In the hospital room, he effortlessly slides down the metal rails, then helps me onto the tall bed. He tucks my trembling legs beneath the sheet, smooths the blue coverlet high across my chest.

I stare at him resentfully, prepared for his expression of gloating. He has won, I have lost, even if I don’t understand the rules of engagement. When he glances back, however, I’m startled to see that his eyes are overbright, his expression distraught. He catches himself, makes a visible effort to pull himself together. For my sake or his?

“Please, honey,” he begins, “you can’t keep doing this. You’re calling unnecessary attention . . .” His voice breaks; he looks away. He’s upset. I’ve upset him. I feel bad, like I should apologize. Those dark, dark eyes, I think. How I loved him once. Love him still?

He swallows heavily. “I know you don’t believe me. I know; everything feels upside down, topsy-turvy. But I love you, Nicky. I have only ever wanted the best for you. Whether you remember that or not.”

“I want to go home,” I whisper.

He smiles tiredly.

“I don’t think the doctors will let you. You’re very sick, Nicky. Three concussions and you’ve bruised your ribs.”

“You’ll take care of me.”

“Based on the past six months, Dr. Celik would beg to differ.”

“It’s not your fault I drink,” I say.

He doesn’t answer.

“I won’t touch any alcohol,” I promise more rashly. “Just get me out of here. The lights are too bright. They hurt my eyes.”

“The police want to question you,” he says bluntly. “Here or at home, Nicky, you have to face them.”

“But I don’t remember anything!”

“Not even buying the Glenlivet?”

His question, spoken coolly, brings me up short. Do I remember buying the bottle of scotch? Maybe. Kind of. Is that even a real answer?

“I want to go home,” I say again.

He opens his mouth. He closes his mouth. It’s obvious he doesn’t know what to do with me anymore. Will he leave me?

Will I miss him?

“Do you remember the promise I made to you, our first night together in New Orleans?” he asks abruptly.

I don’t. It must show on my face.

“Once upon a time, you said your home was wherever I was,” he says.

The words mean nothing to me.

“Once upon a time, you said my love made you strong.”

I have no answer.

“And once upon a time, you said as long as we were together, it would be enough.”

I don’t know what to say; he’s telling me stories from someone else’s life.

He seems to know as much. His shoulders come down. He regards me expressionlessly. “We made a deal that night. Anytime you thought you smelled smoke, you’d reach for my hand. Do you smell smoke, Nicky?”

I frown at him. For the first time, his words sound familiar, as if I should know what he’s talking about. Slowly, I shake my head.

“Did you smell smoke last night?”

I have to think about it. “After the crash,” I murmur.

He doesn’t say anything. Just a muscle flinches in his jaw. A sign that he’s heard. A sign that he hurts.

“I died once before,” I hear myself say.

My husband is not surprised by this news.

“There are only so many times a woman can come back from the dead.”

“We’re going to get through this,” Thomas says evenly.

My turn to smile. Because I might have forgotten his name, but I still know when he’s lying to me.

Vero, I think.

Then I reach out and take my husband’s hand.

Chapter 8

HOW GOES THE battle?” Tessa asked.

On the other end of the phone, Wyatt contemplated his girlfriend’s lighthearted question and promptly sighed heavily. “Long morning,” he admitted. “Long, strange morning. But the good news is, I think we should get a puppy.”

“What?”

He could already picture her, sitting up straighter, blue eyes blinking in bewilderment.

“A cute yellow Lab,” Wyatt continued. “One that will wag its tail and cover you with kisses every time you come home. That would be perfect.”

“Perfect for whom? Dogs have to be fed, you know. As well as taken outside, exercised regularly. And Sophie and I are never home.”

“Mrs. Ennis would help.”

“Mrs. Ennis is seventy years old—”

“And still the toughest broad I know. In fact, if things don’t work out between us, I might just set my cap for her.”

He could practically feel Tessa rolling her eyes. Which was exactly what he needed. A break from the pressure of a case that might not even be a case. And yet he was sure it was a case. At least a motor vehicle accident.

“So why a puppy?” Tessa was asking him.

“Because a puppy makes everything better. Just ask Sophie.”

“Low blow.”

“Of course, I reserve the right to present the puppy. We both know I need the brownie points.”

“You’ve been giving this some thought,” Tessa said.

“Spent the morning with a search dog,” Wyatt volunteered. “Which might have gone better if we’d been searching for a real person, versus some brain-damaged woman’s mental delusion.” He couldn’t help himself; he sighed again.

“Day going that well?”

“Yeah, which means, sadly, I’ll never make dinner. Now that we’ve eliminated the ghosts, we have a real crime scene to analyze and auto accident to reconstruct.”

“Catch me up; what do you know thus far?”

Over the phone, Wyatt could hear Tessa shifting her position, most likely getting more comfortable in her black leather desk chair. She wasn’t just asking a question; she was interested in the answer. Which was one of the things Wyatt liked best about dating a fellow investigator. Tessa didn’t just inquire about his day; she was more than happy to review it with him. And sometimes, as the saying went, two heads were better than one.

Sitting in his county cruiser, waiting for the state police to arrive with the electronic data retrieval box, Wyatt took her up on her offer.

“Single MVA, off road, possible aggravated DWI.”

“Blood alcohol level?”

“Well, first complicating factor. Driver smelled like a distillery. According to hospital records, however, her blood alcohol level was only .06—”

“That doesn’t meet the threshold for DWI.”

“Ah, but the patient suffers from something called post-concussive syndrome. Has taken one too many blows to the head over the past six months. According to the doctor, for a person suffering from a TBI, even a little alcohol can go a long way. So I’m not willing to dismiss it just yet. We could potentially make the argument that for a driver with this condition, .06 is sufficiently impaired.”